


let’s not make it complicated

by suzukiblu



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Exhibitionism, F/M, Flirting, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Civil War (Marvel), Pre-Relationship, very little actual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Sam Wilson is not the uptight sort, so when he walks in on Natasha and Clint cuddled up naked in the living room, his main concerns are practical ones.“Come on, man, we all sit in here,” he says, then squints at them. “And aren’t you married, Barton?”“Aren’t you familiar with open relationships?” Clint says.





	let’s not make it complicated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belladonnaprice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belladonnaprice/gifts).



> Written for belladonnaprice, who wanted “5 Times Falcon Happened Upon Strike Team Delta Gettin’ Busy And 1 Time He Joined In”. Didn’t manage the 5+1 structure, but the general idea remains.

Sam Wilson is not the uptight sort, so when he walks in on Natasha and Clint cuddled up naked in the living room, his main concerns are practical ones. 

“Come on, man, we all sit in here,” he says, then squints at them. “And aren’t you married, Barton?” 

“Aren’t you familiar with open relationships?” Clint says. 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I run into way fewer swingers than I do cheaters, though.” 

“Fair enough.” Clint shrugs as Natasha idly strokes his chest, both of them continuing to be naked on the couch everyone sits on. Ugh. That is stupidly hot but still low-key gross, he doesn’t know how they manage that. “Laura’s my wife. Natasha’s my partner. Laura’s got a girlfriend, actually, you’ll meet her if you ever actually come to Thanksgiving.” 

“Thanks, but still not turning down my mom’s pumpkin pie for anything short of a global emergency,” Sam says. He wonders if everyone else knows about this being a thing and he’s behind the curve, or if the super-spies were just feeling too lazy to put their pants on before he came in the room. Who knows, with these two. The secrets Natasha and Clint choose to keep versus the secrets they don’t even try to make for a very strange Venn diagram. 

“Pumpkin pie is disgusting,” Natasha says with a smile. 

“I will forgive you for that statement only because you’ve never tasted my mom’s,” Sam says. “Seriously, you two, put down a blanket or something next time.” Still both very hot, obviously, but they _do_ all sit there. 

“We’ll take it under consideration,” Clint says. Natasha just keeps smiling. The only thing she’s wearing is that tiny little silver arrow necklace. Clint is wearing even less than that. 

Definitely still both very hot, Sam thinks grudgingly, and leaves before they can get any worse. 

.

.

.

Sam has a bad dream for the thousandth time since he left the service and tries to think about other things. There’s not much that’s properly distracting at this hour of night, unfortunately, at least not until he walks into Natasha and Clint half-dressed and pinning each other to the hallway wall. 

“It’s the middle of the _night_ ,” he says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes and beating down the very inappropriately fast response of his libido, which definitely does not care either what time it is or how bad a nightmare he just had. “Don’t either of you have a bed?” 

“Ours were too far away,” Natasha says silkily. Sam doesn’t even ask what they were doing this close to _his_ room. 

He’s not actually sure how much of an improvement these two are to be thinking about, honestly, but at least they’re not a nightmare. He still takes a _very_ cold shower before he goes back to bed. 

.

.

.

It’s a brand new day and Sam needs a workout, so he goes to the gym. He hears low laughter from back by the archery targets and decides not to investigate, although that’s proven pointless when Natasha and Clint appear from behind the targets wrapped in a blanket. 

“You again, huh?” Natasha asks with a smirk. 

“Seems like it,” Sam replies, raising his eyebrows at her. “How much of the gym am I gonna need to disinfect before I start my workout?” 

“Oh, don’t worry, we put down a blanket this time,” Natasha says carelessly, tossing her hair. Sam’s mildly offended, which is an exclusively Natasha skill. No one else can follow his advice and make him feel _offended_ about it. 

“Several blankets,” Clint says with a smirk of his own, so scratch that, maybe Natasha’s not the _only_ person who can offend him by following his advice. Steve has the weirdest friends. 

He’s one of Steve’s friends, of course, so he probably doesn’t have much room to talk. Still, the principle of the thing stands. 

“So the entire gym, is what I’m hearing here,” Sam says, gesturing around them. “Just the whole damn place.” 

Natasha and Clint smirk at him again, then vanish back behind the archery targets. Sam hears more low laughter and sighs, shaking his head. He considers leaving again, but he really _does_ want to get in a workout. Besides, he’s done weirder than use a treadmill while his teammates get up to whatever “partner” stuff they’re doing. 

They laugh again, and he wonders if he’s ever heard either of them laugh so easily before. 

.

.

.

Sam’s starting to get the feeling that Natasha and Clint have a kink. He says this because he just walked into the kitchen and got a _very_ good view of them fucking on the counter, and they don’t seem particularly concerned by the interruption. 

By which he means, they have not actually STOPPED fucking on the counter. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll clean up when we’re done,” Natasha says casually, like her legs aren’t wrapped around Clint’s scratched-up back tight as a lifeline. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Sam says dryly. He seriously considers just making breakfast anyway, but, well, they’re very distracting. Leaving is definitely the better part of valor. 

He’s _really_ fucking hungry, though. 

“Sorry we forgot the blankets,” Clint says as Natasha gives him a slinky smile. Sam gives up, and just grabs an apple to take with him. _Superheroes_ , man. 

.

.

.

To the best of Sam’s knowledge, Natasha is supposed to have some kind of unspoken thing with the--admittedly MIA--Hulk, and Clint is supposed to be retired. You wouldn’t know it from how often Clint’s around, though. You _definitely_ wouldn’t know it from how well-armed Clint showed up to today’s hostage situation. 

Catching them making out behind the surveillance van after, you probably wouldn’t know it either. 

“You two are ridiculous,” Sam says resignedly. “Also, we were due on the jet ten minutes ago.” 

“Fashionably late?” Clint suggests with a grin. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“Your tac gear is _not_ fashionable, no matter what the tabloids say,” he says. 

“Mine is,” Natasha says archly, tossing her hair, which admittedly he can’t really argue with. The tac gear thing, he means, not her tossing her hair. Though that makes things harder to argue with too, honestly. 

“Man, don’t make me explain you two to Rogers,” he says, and they both laugh that easy laugh. 

.

.

.

Sam gets used to it, eventually. There’s not much people can’t get used to, in his experience, and having semi-exhibitionist teammates is hardly the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. A little weird, sure, but no weirder than watching Steve play pinball with his shield and the heads of a bunch of HYDRA goons, definitely no weirder than Wanda’s whole . . . _Wanda_ , and nowhere _near_ as weird as Vision. He can deal. 

It means a lot more of those cold showers, mind, but still. He can deal. 

Seriously, though. So. Many. Cold. Showers. It’s getting ridiculous. If Sam doesn’t watch it, he’s going to get sick or something. If he gets a cold because Natasha and Clint are _too attractive_ , he is never going to live it down. 

“Didn’t you take a shower this morning?” Steve says, giving him a puzzled look as he comes out of the locker room still all damp and with a towel on his head. “Did you work out again?” 

“It’s just one of those days, man,” Sam says with a sigh, dragging the towel down his face. 

“Is it?” Steve asks doubtfully. 

“It definitely is.” Sam scrubs at his face. “You seen Nat and Clint?” 

“They’re in the gym,” Steve says. 

“Good to know,” Sam says, and despite temptation heads the opposite direction. He can only fit so many cold showers into one day, after all. Steve follows him, looking perplexed, but doesn’t push it. 

“We’re taking the Quinjet out to test the latest upgrades this afternoon,” he says. “You in?” 

“Always,” Sam says. He loves to fly, and stress-testing Tony Stark’s newest set of new tricks? Sign him the hell up. The only thing better is stress-testing his wings. 

Also, Natasha and Clint definitely won’t be naked for this. Not that he’s going to be forgetting what they look like naked anytime soon, of course. Or ever, probably. 

Seriously, they’re _distracting_. That’s . . . that’s a whole thing, and one he could go on about for a while and then some. 

“You want to pilot?” Steve says, and Sam puts aside those distracting thoughts and smirks at him. 

“Do I want to _pilot_ , he asks,” he scoffs, and Steve laughs. 

It’s a good laugh, but it doesn’t sound like Natasha and Clint’s. 

.

.

.

So things go back to normal, or rather, the weird semi-exhibitionist teammates become something normal. Sam gets used to closing doors _real_ quick, although that doesn’t help when there’s no doors handy, and really, seriously, the _hangar_? 

“You two are gonna get covered in Quinjet oil and you are gonna deserve it,” he says as he leans on the catwalk railing and takes a sip of his coffee, eyeing Natasha and Clint and the little pile of rucked-up canvas tarps they’re laying on down on the floor below. They both smirk up at him. They both smirk a lot, as a rule. It looks good on them, so no surprise there. 

“Thanks for the concern, Sam,” Natasha says. “We’ll be careful, won’t we, Clint?” 

“The most careful,” he says. Sam sighs at them and throws another tarp down from the catwalk. It may or may not be oily. Natasha and Clint both still laugh, either way. 

Seriously, how is he supposed to take this kind of thing? 

“Gonna stay up there all day?” Natasha asks, tugging the tarp over her chest and--again--smirking up at him. 

“I don’t know, you two gonna be _down_ there all day?” he asks dryly. 

“Got someplace better?” Clint asks lightly. 

“Literally anywhere not a puddle of oil,” Sam suggests, taking another sip of coffee. “You’re looking a little sticky there, Barton.” 

“Shit,” Clint says as he touches the oil in his hair, but laughs again anyway. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen either of them as happy as they get when they’re together, which is honestly the only reason he hasn’t given them a talking-to about the whole “making time all over the base” thing. Seriously, though, Wanda and Vision are at impressionable ages. _He’s_ at an impressionable age, judging by the impression they keep making on him. 

He’s definitely going to need another one of those cold showers, that much is for good goddamn sure. 

“You two are a crime,” he says with a shake of his head, and ignores how they’re tucked in so close and casual. At least they stopped fucking this time, if not touching each other, which is some small mercy. He can _almost_ pretend this is a normal conversation, with the tarp pulled up over their chests. Almost. 

“Going to Avenge it?” Clint tease, and Sam snorts. 

“Yeah, no, you can work that out between two consenting adults,” he says. “I’m going flying.” 

“Guess we can’t compare to that,” Natasha says with an odd--fondness? Is that fondness in her voice? He still isn’t great at reading her, not in small part because she knows he’s good at reading people and so goes the extra mile to be especially cryptic in his presence. It’s almost like a challenge, he thinks sometimes, though he’s not sure if it’s meant to be a fun one or not. He doesn’t know if winning would actually mean _winning_ , either, so he hasn’t pushed it too hard yet. He’d rather she be comfortable with him than make perfect sense. 

Admittedly, as-is she makes next to _no_ sense and is probably a little _too_ comfortable with him, so maybe he should consider pushing it a little bit after all. 

For right now, though, he just takes his coffee and heads out, and leaves Natasha and Clint to their very unsubtle and yet very cryptic devices. That seems to be what they both prefer, so he might as well let them have it. Anyway, he’s got flying to do. 

.

.

.

Sam runs into Clint in the common room and genuinely has a moment where he thinks it’s weird seeing the other with a shirt on, and, worse, a moment where he’s disappointed that the other’s shirt _is_ on. That’s one for the repression box, he decides; he’ll sort through those feelings _later_ , when he is _not_ directly in front of Clint himself. 

“Hey, man,” he says. 

“Hey,” Clint says. “You busy?” 

“Naw, why, you need something?” Sam tilts his head. 

“Not exactly.” 

Somehow “not exactly” translates to “climb the building with me”. Sam isn’t entirely sure how he got talked into this one. Not that he’s afraid of heights or anything, obviously, just normally when he’s dealing with heights he’s doing it with wings on. 

Also, there was a perfectly good staircase they could’ve taken. Like, that is very much a thing that they could have done. 

“Is there a reason we’re doing this?” Sam asks, eyeing the ground below warily. 

“Not really,” Clint says, pulling him the rest of the way onto the roof. “I just wanted to hang out.” 

“Maybe mean that less literally next time,” Sam advises, although part of him’s pleased anyway. Well-- _most_ of him, really. He actually hasn’t spent that much time one-on-one with Clint, outside of a few brief encounters and one really _memorable_ mission in Wyoming, of all places. There’s always been at least Natasha around. Not that he minds Natasha being around, aside from when her being around means she and Clint are making time and ruining his brain. 

. . . not that he minds _that_ , necessarily, just--

Yeah, that’s one for the repression box. He’ll work those feelings out later. 

“You in there?” Clint says, waving a hand in front of his face. 

A _lot_ later. 

“All here and accounted for,” Sam says. “So why the roof?” 

“I like the roof,” Clint says reasonably. Weird, but good enough, Sam figures. 

“Alright,” he says, and they stay up there the rest of the morning. 

.

.

.

Eventually, Clint decides roof time is over, says his goodbyes, and rappels down the side of the building like it’s at least as normal as taking the fire escape. Sam watches him go, still wondering a lot of things about him despite having just spent the better part of two hours talking. They didn’t really say much when it came down to it--mostly just small talk and casual pleasantries. It was a nice conversation, sure, but not a very illuminating one. 

Clint grins up the side of the building at him, and blows him a kiss before turning on his heel to head inside. 

Sam takes the stairs. 

.

.

.

Sam’s in the middle of lunch when Natasha shows up--also wearing a shirt, for the record, although not one that hides the hickies on her shoulder, which is an interesting choice. Also, not a very subtle one. Sam isn’t sure what he’s supposed to take from that. 

“Hurry up,” she says. “We’ve got plans.” 

“We do?” Sam squints at her questioningly. “Avenging plans, or, like, _plans_?” 

“Like plans,” she says. “But you’re not going dressed like _that_.” Sam looks down at himself. He’s in a button-up and slacks, because he spent the half the morning he wasn’t with Clint on a video call being professional, so he’s not sure what the issue is. 

He finds out what the issue is when Natasha shoves him into his room and he meets the tux she’s laid out for him. He should probably be annoyed that she’s encroached on his private space like that, but it’s Natasha. If he was the type to get annoyed over minor breaches of privacy, he sure as hell wouldn’t hang around her. 

“You’re kidding, right?” he says, peering at the thing. It looks expensive. It looks _intimidatingly_ expensive. 

“Get dressed,” she says, and closes the door. 

Sam gets dressed. He looks pretty sharp, if he does say so himself, and the suit’s a perfect fit. It also doesn’t impede his range of motion at _all_ , which is pretty impressive for dress clothes, he thinks. Maybe that’s just the tailoring, though. He wonders where Natasha got his measurements. Normally he’d just assume she got them out of the fabrication lab’s computers, but it _is_ Natasha; she might’ve just eyeballed them. 

He really didn’t need to picture her doing that, all things considered. 

He leaves his room, carefully tying his bow tie as he walks, and Natasha looks up from her chair in the common room and hums--approvingly? Maybe approvingly. She gets up and straightens his bow tie and adjusts the lay of his jacket, then smiles up at him. She’s changed too, and she’s wearing a very black dress and ruby bracelets that are probably capable of electrocuting two full-grown men at once, knowing Natasha’s taste in bracelets. Her lipstick is perfect. 

It’s . . . it’s an experience, is what it is. He cannot imagine what Banner was thinking when he fucked off for parts unknown. He also cannot imagine how Natasha pulled off that flawless makeup job in the time it took him to figure out his cufflinks, to say nothing of curling her hair, getting into the dress, and getting back here again. Then again, it did kind of take him a while to figure out his cufflinks. 

They head down to the garage and take one of Tony’s shiny little sports cars, possibly even with his permission. Natasha drives. Sam sits in the passenger seat, mystified, but doesn’t ask where they’re going. If it were a mission, Natasha would’ve said. Whatever she’s on about isn’t official Avengers business. 

He could ask, obviously, but it’s Natasha. 

.

.

.

They go to the ballet. Sam has never been to a ballet before, and spends the whole time honestly baffled as to what they’re doing here. Maybe this _is_ a mission, and they’re spying on someone. 

After the show, though, they just head home in Tony’s shiny little sports car, and Natasha kisses his cheek before they go their separate ways. 

Like always, she doesn’t make sense. Like always, he doesn’t examine the situation too closely. 

He still doesn’t know what’ll happen if he ever figures her out. 

.

.

.

Sam hears the now-familiar sounds of Natasha and Clint gasping and moaning, and stays out of the living room for the rest of the day. 

His repression box is getting pretty crowded, he thinks. There’s probably some stuff he needs to work through in there. 

.

.

.

Natasha’s breath hitches, her fingers digging into Clint’s hair and back arching against Sam’s bed. Because they are in Sam’s bed, Sam is _watching them_ in _his bed_ , that is the thing that is happening right now. They’re both naked and beautiful and taking up exactly two-thirds of the thing and not an inch more, and when Sam inadvertently makes a noise, they both look at him. 

And they _smirk_. 

Sam wakes up flustered and horny and _really_ disappointed in the failure of his repression box. 

He goes back to sleep on the couch, for obvious reasons. 

.

.

.

Sam spends the day’s briefing in tired mostly-silence, not looking at Natasha or Clint or anywhere even vaguely in their general direction, even when they speak. He’s not dumb enough to test his poker face right now. They can probably tell something’s going on, but they can’t tell _what’s_ going on, and that’s the thing he really wants to avoid right now. He wants to work out his shit before anyone calls him on it. He vastly prefers things go in that order. The Avengers are by no means a collection of well-adjusted people, by _any_ metric, but Sam handles his own shit and he likes it that way. Even when his own shit involves other Avengers. 

“You alright, Sam?” Steve asks him after the briefing. He and Tony and Rhodey are still in the room, but Natasha and Clint are gone, along with Wanda and Vision. Sam debates how honest to be. Tony can’t keep his mouth shut for shit, so not _too_ honest, he decides. 

“You know how Natasha and Clint keep fucking in the common areas?” he asks. “And going to no effort to avoid being walked in on?” 

“Oh God, ew, they _do_ that?” Tony demands. “Why would they do that?! We all sit there!” 

“Pretty sure you don’t have any room to talk, buddy,” Rhodey says dryly. 

“I’ve never walked in on them,” Steve says. Sam . . . pauses. 

“Huh,” he says. 

.

.

.

“So this is an assassin thing, I’m assuming,” Sam says, folding his arms. “Normal people just _ask_ , you know. At least, the moderately healthy ones do.” 

“Ask what?” Natasha asks with perfect innocence. If he didn’t know her better than that, he might’ve bought it. If she weren’t sitting there naked in Clint’s _lap_ on _his_ couch, he might’ve bought it. 

And that’s to say nothing of the handcuffs, obviously. 

“Flirting also works,” he says. 

“Flirting?” Clint gives him a perfectly innocent look of his own, like he’s not the one _wearing_ the handcuffs. Sam sighs in exasperation. 

“Yes,” he deadpans. “Flirting. Asking. Things people can do.” 

“Did you _have_ something to ask us, Sam?” Natasha asks with a slow, smug smile. 

“I dunno,” he says. “Did you have something you _wanted_ asked?” 

Natasha laughs, and so does Clint. They make a damn pretty picture, of course, and the sound of their laughter warms something in Sam that honestly doesn’t see much warmth since--since Riley, and how all that shook out. He isn’t sure what to say next, but he can think of a damn lot of things to _do_. Too many, if anything. 

He settles for the easy one, and heads over to the couch. 

“Move over,” he says, and they make space for him as easily as if they’ve done it a thousand times. He sits down beside Clint, and Natasha leans into his space. They’re both very warm. “Do I want to know where you got the handcuffs?” 

“Probably not,” Clint says wryly. Natasha huffs out a laugh, like there’s some story there. There probably is. Natasha and Clint have a lot of stories; enough to make Sam a little nervous even as he sits here this close to them. He could ask them what this is, or how _much_ this is, but part of him doesn’t want to. 

He’s a grown-ass man, of course, so he does anyway. 

“What is this?” he asks, gesturing between them. 

“What do you want it to be?” Natasha arches an eyebrow at him. 

“Less double-talk, for one,” Sam says, and Clint snickers. “Not that I’d expect you to give up on the double-talk completely, obviously, I’m not _that_ unrealistic.” 

“No, you’re not,” Natasha agrees with an unfamiliar softness in her eyes. It might be a trap, admittedly, but the sight of it--it’s something, alright. Once again, Sam wonders what the hell Banner was thinking when he ran off. 

“I’m just saying, usually I’d prefer some wining and dining somewhere in the process,” he says. “You know, the romantic stuff.” 

“You didn’t like the roof?” Clint asks at the same time Natasha asks, “You didn’t like the ballet?” 

Of course, he thinks to himself, and smiles wryly at them. 

“Next time, maybe _tell_ me it’s a date,” he says. 

“Now where’s the fun in that?” Clint asks with a smirk. 

“Well, you could’ve gotten me on this couch _weeks_ ago, for starters,” Sam points out. 

“. . . valid,” Clint says, looking him over like _he’s_ the naked one. Sam snorts at him. Natasha, at some point, has gotten close enough that she’s practically in _his_ lap, but hasn’t quite made the leap. 

He’d like her to, he thinks, and leans back against the back of the couch to make room. Natasha smiles slow and languid and throws a leg over his thigh. 

“ _Now_ you’re getting it,” she says coaxingly. 

“Pretty sure I got it a while ago,” Sam says, and they give him matching smirks. “I’m still not coming to your family’s Thanksgiving, Barton. If anything this means you should come to _mine_.” 

“We can work out a split custody arrangement,” Clint says reasonably. Sam snorts again. 

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” Natasha says lightly, reaching up to touch his face. She looks so soft and pretty, which is pretty impressive considering the very aggressive-looking bullet scars in her stomach and the fact that she’s _Natasha_. It’s very different, on her. 

He’s not _complaining_ , necessarily, but-- 

“You really gotta roll out the red carpet like that like I’m a mark?” he asks. A brief flicker of surprise goes through her, and then she smiles again and does not look soft or pretty at all. She looks like she could fucking _devour_ him. 

“If you insist,” she says, and then pins him to the couch and kisses him so hard he _knows_ it’s gonna bruise. Clint makes a mildly interested noise, which in super-spy probably means he’s feeling some of Sam’s pain over the last few weeks of unintentional voyeurism. Sam kisses her back, because he’s not a goddamn _idiot_ , and her hands dive in under his shirt and pull it up, quick and clever and _everywhere_. 

“There you are,” he says between kisses, breathless for all the obvious reasons. Clint leans in and kisses him too, softer and slower and nowhere near as bruising. Sam doesn’t know him well enough to know if that’s really him or just a put-on, yet. He doesn’t even know _Natasha_ well enough to be sure this is really her, although he knows it’s at least closer than the soft and pretty was. 

He thinks he wouldn’t mind learning. He wouldn’t mind learning at _all_. That is pretty much the opposite of a thing that he would mind, in fact. 

“Hey,” he says between kisses, and Clint grins against his mouth. 

“Hey,” he says back. His damn hands are still cuffed, which-- _Jesus_. “So you’re into this, I’m guessing?” 

“Not at all,” Sam deadpans before nipping at the other’s lower lip. Clint laughs. Natasha smirks. They both continue to be distractingly attractive, although now that they’re both basically on _top_ of him that’s not as much a problem. There are very few problems in Sam’s life right now, in fact. 

Actually, only one. 

“Okay, get off me,” he says. “I don’t care how hot you two are, I’m _not_ gonna be the next Avenger to get walked in on in the middle of things.” 

“Even by Steve?” Natasha suggests innocently. 

“. . . table that for later,” Sam says, _eyeing_ her. Minx. “For right now, we’re going someplace with a door that _locks_.” 

“The locks around here aren’t really that good,” Clint says conversationally, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

“They get the point across, which is what I’m trying to do here,” he says. “Also, this from the guy in _handcuffs_ , again.” 

“Well, these aren’t Starktech,” Clint says with a grin, giving them a little tug. 

“Once again, I really don’t want to know where those came from.” 

“It’s your living room, are you that worried about being walked in on?” Natasha asks in amusement. 

“After the past month? Yes,” Sam says. “You two are hopeless. Or incorrigible. Both, probably.” 

“Well, we never claimed to be boring,” Natasha says mildly, slipping out of his lap and to her feet, which makes it a hell of a lot easier to look her over. She is literally perfect, right down to every curl of her hair and the half-faded hickeys and the scar tissue and smudged lipstick. 

“Is your bedroom really that interesting anyway?” Clint asks. 

“Don’t make me drag you there,” Sam threatens. Clint looks intrigued. 

“Promise?” he asks. Sam seriously considers throwing him over his shoulder, but apparently Clint would like that too much. 

. . . then again, he’s not actually _against_ Clint liking things. Obviously. 

“We’ll see,” he says anyway, and Natasha and Clint laugh that easy laugh that could distract him from _anything_ , Sam thinks, and he and Clint get to their feet. Natasha catches him by the hand and Clint by the cuffs, and smiles up at both of them. She makes it look--well, _easy_. Sam wonders if she really does always smile like this in bed. He’d really like to find out. 

He’s pretty sure he’s about to, or at least about to get his first glimpse at the data, so that’s pretty nice. 

“You two are a goddamned menace,” he says, maybe a little bit reverently. They both give him amused looks. 

“We weren’t going to get your attention any other way, were we?” Natasha asks lightly as she leads them back towards his bedroom. 

“Not the way you flirt, at least,” he says, and follows along. “On that note--you got any more of those handcuffs?” 

“I think something can be arranged,” Natasha says with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
